Way out East there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of John Coffey. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. John Coffey, he called himself John Coffey. Now, John Coffey — he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.
(Warning: some salty language, yelling, and incessant questioning of things women will never understand)
A man doesn’t build a flamethrower for any real reason; he builds it because he can. Unless he’s a professional arsonist, in which case the flamethrower is a vital piece of equipment. Then again, if someone hands you a business card that says professional arsonist it’s probably a good idea to give it back and wipe the gasoline off your fingers before he gets any big, flamey ideas.
Defined as: “a mechanical incendiary device designed to project a long, controllable stream of fire”, the flamethrower really needs a few bits appended onto that nice little description to make it fit better with the parlance of our times.
How about: “A thingy that throws flames, and shit; get over it Martha it’s not that big a deal, Christ”. Better? Better.
Jeesh, Cape Canaveral really went to hell after people stopped giving a crap about space travel. We already beat the Russkis to the Moon and no one want to nuke anything from orbit anymore, so I can see why a lot of people have lost interest. The last time anyone managed to get to the Moon and back was 1972, and that’s an awfully long time by any standard. If the last successful mission to the moon was a person they’d have grown up, graduated from college, gotten a job at the cracker factory, gotten married, had three kids, raised those kids to adulthood, and drunk themselves to death by now.
I think the string of unsuccessful missions before and after that really put a damper on things; people want Moon rocks, not a big heap of well-done astronaut. I think we need to work our way back up to where we were beforehand instead of starting where we left off. We’re too far gone now, and every useful member of the space program has died of boredom. We need to start off by sending a few monkeys to test the water. If they don’t come back we’ll readjust and try again later. I mean — how hard can it be? If a bunch of robo-dweebs with slide ruler can do it then we normal people can.
(Many thanks to our dear friend Charles Schneider for sending this one along)
It’s just basic bro-code etiquette. No dating your friend’s girl until at least six weeks after they stopped hooking up. No inviting uncool dudes, parents, or politicians to your keggers. No leaving bros out of your ultimate frisbee games in favor of other bros. No bro may wear more than five popped collars at once, unless in combination with a backwards visor or baseball cap. And above all, no signing other bros up for Belgian So You Think You Can Dance.
It’s just plain wrong.